By a Thread
by Coast2Coast
Summary: Set between Season 2 and 3, Buffy has been away from Sunnydale for three months and her need to connect with her Watcher is as desperate as his need to find her.
1. Chapter 1  Distant Intimacy

Disclaimer: Not mine, not making money.

Author's Note: Post-Becoming, pre-Anne; Buffy has been missing for months. Angst alert, maybe angst squared just to be on the safe side.

**By a Thread** by Coast2Coast

Chapter One: Distant Intimacy

Giles had been considering going to bed to not sleep when the phone rang. The shrill sound sent his headache into before unknown levels of pain.

He stared at the offending object and considered letting the machine pick it up. The image of Willow, Xander and Oz as he had last seen them, loading themselves with weapons from the locker in the library in preparation for the night killed the thought.

The three had taken over the Slaying duties as best they could. He didn't like it, but no amount of lecturing had been able to sway Willow. Someone had to do it had been her argument and, unable to sufficiently dispute her logic, he had finally agreed to stop harassing them if they would let him come along as often as he was able. Until his Slayer returned, he would be their Watcher. And he swore to himself that he would be a better one to them than he had been to Buffy. He would not fail these three children as he had obviously failed her.

He picked the phone up after its fourth ring.

"Hello?"

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_He's asleep, I'm waking him up. _

Three rings. She had been counting, questioning the wisdom of this a little more with each ring, what little resolve she had crumbling a bit more with each passing moment.

_He's not home._

Four rings. Her eyes began to burn. In all the time it had taken her to pick up the phone and dial, she had never considered the possibility that no one would be there to answer. Giving in to the unexpected disappointment and allowing herself the luxury of tears, her head sagged in defeat and she moved slowly to place the receiver back in its cradle.

'Hello?'

Her hand stopped short of its destination at the sound of his voice. Her heartbeat quickened and her hand shook slightly as she pulled the receiver back to press it against her ear. Her knees went weak and she found herself supported by the glass walls around her, her head resting lightly against the phone.

'Hello?'

He sounded tired, exasperated. Her eyes shut tight, trying to stop the tears that were now flowing freely down her cheeks.

She drew in a breath, opening her mouth to speak but no words would form. Guilt, shame and fear rose up and wrapped around her, robbing her of her voice. _Giles_... His name sat unspoken, lodged in the back of her throat. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. God, Giles I'm so sorry._

'Is anyone there?'

_He's gonna hang up..._

Again she tried to speak, needing to keep him on the line, to hear his voice for just as long as she could. Her face crumpled as her mouth again betrayed her, refusing to allow her to form words.

What came out was a choked sob.

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Silence. Whoever had decided to call him at this hour of the night said nothing in response to the standard greeting. He sighed inwardly, far too tired to deal with prank calls at the moment. _For pity's sake, just bother someone else tonight..._

"Hello?" He repeated the question for the second time. Again, he received only silence as an answer. No, not complete silence.

Static... was that static? A soft, indrawn breath and another brief sound – perhaps a voice – a fragment of a word? There was someone there. He could hear them over the - no, that wasn't static he decided, as a gentle rumble came across the line. _Rain. It's rainfall._

Was it raining? He had been at the window a moment before and had seen no signs of an impending storm. He spared a glance out his front window. Not a drop of rain, not even a cloud in the sky. _A long-distance prank call?_ His grip on the receiver tightened. _Buffy?_

"Is anyone there?" _Answer me, damn it._ He had to be sure it was her, that his mind wasn't just playing a cruel trick on his heart. _Please, God, let me be right._

There! A sound was clearly discernible over the soft patter of rainfall wherever she was; a soft, aborted sound, a quiet little cry that was painful to hear.

"Buffy?" Her name was a question, tentative and quiet, barely audible over the phone line.

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'Buffy?'

She gasped, her head snapped up, eyes going wide at the whisper-soft sound of her own name against her ear. How had he known it was her? How could he?

_Giles…_

Why did he have to sound so hopeful? And why did that have to hurt so much, cut so deeply?

_God, Giles, I miss you. I never knew I could miss anything as much as I miss you_.

Tears were now streaming down her face; she didn't even bother trying to stop them. It took all her energy to keep from sobbing out loud, her breath coming in short gulps of air she could barely control.

_It hurts. _

She didn't answer. She couldn't.

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He could hear her on the other end of the line; voiceless, broken sobs with sharp edges that tore at him, heart and soul. Every cell of his being wanted nothing more in that moment than to wrap her in his arms, safe and warm; to bring her home and make sure she never had to cry again.

That wasn't possible, he knew; but surely if he could just get her to speak, keep her talking for a little while...

_We miss you. We need you; here, safe. We need to know you're all right. Are you all right? _

What if she was hurt or dying and he was too far away to do anything more than listen to her weep over the phone line? Possibilities ran through his mind, each one more horrific than the last. More frightened than hopeful, he could only keep trying.

_Just one word, Buffy, please…_

"Buffy, please," he could hear the anxiety - the pleading, terrified desperation in his own voice and didn't care. It didn't matter. None of it mattered if he could just hear her voice. "Please, just answer me."

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She didn't answer. She couldn't.

Though the words she needed to say formed easily in her mind, giving them voice was simply more than she could achieve. Despite the entreaty in his voice, despite the fact that his own pain and loss was something as easily heard as his words, some part of her simply refused to allow her to answer him; the small part of her that knew he could talk her home.

She was close to breaking as it was. So close. All it would take would be one word to carry her away from her solitude and loneliness. The selfish need to let him do just that burned in her chest like the need to breathe.

_Oh, Giles, I want to come home. I want so much to come home... _

'Buffy?'

_But I can't. Not now. Maybe not ever. _

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"Buffy?" he asked again. The soft sounds of crying still came across the line. He knew she was there. Why didn't she answer?

Some logical part of his mind argued that if she had the breath to weep, she could have spoken, but the emotional and frightened part of him could not shake the imagined picture of her lying broken and bleeding somewhere far away. Why else would she have called? Why else wouldn't she speak? Answers to his questions presented themselves and he pushed them away, finding no comfort in them at all. Unfounded fear was preferable for the moment to the pain those answers caused.

"Buffy, please..." came his voice again, no longer a question, "please... say something… say anything… just answer me. I need to know if you're all right. Just tell me you're all right."

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Fear, she could hear it now; above the pain, above the loss, above the desperate hope was fear for her. 'I just need to know you're all right...'

_I'm not all right. I'm not all right at all. I can't sleep for the dreams. I don't have the energy to eat. There is evil and danger everywhere, not just on the Hellmouth. And every moment I don't see __**him**__, I see you._

She closed her eyes, and the images were there without effort. Her Watcher and friend, who had always been there for her no matter what, heartbreakingly pale in the morning sun, broken and bandaged and hurt, all because of her.

With the memories came control. Her sobs slowed, became easier to keep silent. She raised her head and opened her eyes, still seeing the image she knew she would remember for eternity in place of the rain-slicked glass before her.

_Can you move your fingers yet? Is Xander's arm still in a cast? What about Willow; can she walk?_

She shouldn't have done this, should not be putting him through this torment for a few stolen moments of reassurance for herself. This, of all that she had done in recent memory, felt the most selfish and cruel, worse in her own heart and mind than what Angel must have done to him. Breaking his fingers herself might have hurt him less than this.

She should not be doing this to him; it was too cruel.

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The sounds of her sorrow and pain began to fade in the moments after his request. She didn't believe it any more than he did. Just knowing she was all right would not be enough; he needed to know she was all right **here**, with him.

His fear was dissipating along with her crying, being replaced by sorrow and despair and a sense of futility that he was losing this tiny, one-sided battle. He had to speak what he knew to be true; make her at least begin to see the truth of it, before he lost her forever.

"Buffy, you did what you had to do. What we all needed you to do. You saved us, if not from harm then from doom." He paused at the harsh intake of breath he heard distantly, barely audible above the increasingly loud skitter of rain in the background.

_Buffy, please! We can fix it. Whatever it is, we can find a way to fix it. Just talk to me. Please._

As when he had first picked up the phone, there was now only silence and the sound of rainfall from the other end.

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Though she had her breathing under control she could not stop the tears. They still flowed down her cheeks, leaving her eyes red and aching and her throat tight with the desire to speak or openly sob; she wasn't sure which.

'Buffy, you did what you had to do. What we all needed you to do.'

She gasped sharply at his interpretation of her actions on that hellish night.

'You saved us, if not from harm then from doom.'

Somehow, he had known what she was thinking; that she was the instrument of their misfortune. He had snatched away her certainty of the rightness of her position with his simple declaration of his point of view. She wavered.

It would be so easy, just one sentence, one word and he would come. So easy to do, and yet so difficult she wasn't sure she could do it. Had she stayed and allowed them the opportunity to heal her, she knew, she would not need to be afraid of it now.

But she hadn't, and she was.

_I thought this would be better. For me, for you, for everyone; I was wrong, nothing could be worse. _

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As the silence continued, becoming louder and louder, drowning out the soft sound of rain over the fragile connection, he felt her slipping away. Despite the fact that she was still there, still listening; he was losing her.

He sank slowly to the couch and allowed his head to fall forward, covering his eyes with the hand that wasn't clutching the phone as if he could hold her on the line with the force of his grip. It was only then he realized that he himself was crying, though he couldn't remember when he had started.

The tears that had been tracking down his cheeks now fell into his hand, slipping silently through his fingers. He had failed again; he would lose her again.

_Please, God... I'll do anything... please…_

"Buffy?" Her name was little more than a whisper, forced past a lump of pain and loss that had lodged itself in his throat. In moments, he knew, it would be he that wept without words while she listened.

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'Buffy?'

Her free hand reached up to join its' twin in cradling the receiver at the defeated sound of her name in his pain-filled voice, wanting and needing to reach out to touch him, to hold him, to be with him for just this moment.

It was time to end this. She could not go home. Holding him prisoner on the phone, listening to him ask for words she could not give was not mending her heart; only shattering what was left of the pieces. This had to stop now; and yet, she could not leave him like this. Could not break this connection, however distant, and leave him again without a word. Not again.

She leaned forward, her head resting against the cool metal of the phone, her hand reaching up in preparation to cut this tenuous link to home and hope. She didn't deserve comfort; certainly not now. Her eyes closed and she drew a breath, fighting against a fresh wave of despair, determined to give him what she had wanted and needed when she picked up the phone to call in the first place: just a voice, for just a moment.

It really wasn't so much to ask, after all, was it?

Her voice, when she managed the words, was little more than a whisper. Three words were all she could force past the tightness in her throat. It wasn't enough, not nearly enough; every word ever spoken, shouted from the rooftops would not be enough to make up for all the pain she had caused. But it was all she could do.

"Giles, I'm sorry." she said, unsure if she was apologizing for the phone call or for running away.

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He sat silently, listening to the rain on her end of the line, no longer feeling able to speak.

'Giles, I'm sorry.'

The whispered words, when they came, were barely audible, but he heard them; he heard everything in them. Guilt, shame, fear, loneliness, loss, sorrow and more pain than any one person should ever have to bear. And he could sense the finality in them. It took a moment for the truth of it to sink in.

_No..._

Something in him snapped. He would **not** allow this. It would kill him. Or her. Probably both.

He bolted upright from the couch to a standing position and bellowed into the phone. Behind his words were all the frustration and worry and grief and pain of the past three months.

"Young lady, you will **not** hang up that phone! Do you hear me!"

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The shock of hearing him use that tone of voice - a demanding, strident shout - startled her into immobility.

Her hand froze, millimeters away from the cradle. Only a slight movement would sever the link between them; forever. The need she felt to protect him from further contact with her warred with the volume of trust, respect and confidence she had in him and an ingrained link to her sense of self-preservation that insisted she obey him. The two were equally weighted and she hesitated - hung purposelessly in a void. All will and judgment seemed to have left her.

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The white-knuckled grip Giles maintained on the phone was causing a shooting pain from his wrist up his forearm and into his elbow, but he refused to loosen his hold on this tenuous life line. He imagined he could hear her breathing over the rushing sound of rain. Not good enough. She must listen to him… and respond.

"I said 'You will **not** hang up that phone.' Do you understand? **Answer** me this **instant**!"

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"Yes." It escaped her lips without thought or volition on her part.

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'Yes.'

The single word was no more than a whisper; and the most beautiful sound he had ever heard in his life.

A relieved sigh gusted from his lips as he raised his face to the ceiling in a silent prayer of thanks. He dropped back to his seat on the couch and returned his concentration to the phone.

"Buffy, listen to me," Giles spoke hurriedly, desperate to get the information he needed, had tried to obtain for months. "Everything else can wait or be damned, but I need to come to you. Tell me where you are."

End Chapter One


	2. Chapter 2  Final Approach

Disclaimer: Not mine, not making money.

**By a Thread** by Coast2Coast

**Chapter Two: Final Approach**

Giles slowed marginally to ensure the borrowed Range Rover held the turn he was making on the rain covered blacktop. He had first encountered the unrelenting downpour when the private plane he had chartered made the approach into the Napa County airport.

Nearly halfway between San Francisco and the Oregon border, that was how far Buffy had traveled; physically, in any case. Giles kept pushing away questions that arose in his mind about how far she had traveled away from him mentally. _Later, later; everything else can wait. I must find her or nothing else will matter a damn, anyway._

After Buffy had divulged her whereabouts and he had wrung a promise from her to stay where she was until he arrived, Giles had needed to pry the phone from his own fingers. Only the vow he had made to himself that he would see her in the flesh before dawn had allowed him to hang up that phone. It was the most difficult thing he had ever done - giving up that sure contact with her in order to take the chance for something more.

A hurried call to a Watcher living in the San Francisco area had garnered the promise of a car and all the supplies he would need for at least a few days. In a stroke of blinding luck, in which he had lately begun to firmly disbelieve, the Watcher had access to a cabin less than ten miles from Buffy's current location.

He had flung a few changes of clothes for himself into a bag, snatched up his field medical case and made a mad dash for the Sunnydale airport. Kathy had been waiting when he landed in Napa County; she handed him the keys to the Range Rover, directions to the spot Buffy had described to him and to the cabin, further north.

Over an hour of driving had brought him into a very sparsely occupied area of forest and fields. As he swept around another turn a flickering, harshly white light pulsed from the darkness; the phone booth. Indistinctly, against the dismal background, he could see the abandoned gas station - obviously neglected for many years. He slowed the car carefully as he approached, desperate to finally reach his goal but wanting to avoid a swerve or spin out on the water sluicing from the road. His eyes scanned frantically as he came nearer, needing to see her; needing to know his headlong flight to this godforsaken spot had not been in vain. There was nothing within the glass and metal enclosure of the phone booth that was clear even with the annoyance of the unsteady light.

_She must be here, she must… She promised to wait for me to come! _

The only thing visible near the booth was an indistinguishable lump resting on a railroad tie that served as part of a crude border for what would have been the parking area of the gas station when it had been in service. What was that; a pile of refuse, a bag of litter abandoned by some passing motorist? No - he saw, or felt perhaps, something that struck a chord of recognition in him.

_Buffy! _

Much as he had longed to find her, the sight of the vessel for her young, bright spirit slumped over in this morass of dark and wet, like some cast off, useless, unwanted thing, constricted his heart and forced an inarticulate moan to be wrested from his throat. He brought the car to a halt only a few feet from her, the headlights casting her figure into sharp relief without causing her to stir. Abject terror at the thought she had really only called to say goodbye after receiving some fatal wound leapt back into the forefront of his mind as he flung himself from the car. Giles dropped to his knees in the mud and reached forward to rest one hand on a shoulder to steady her and used the other to sweep back her rain-soaked hair and tilt her head back so he could see her face.

Buffy blinked sluggishly at the light; eyes ending at half mast and unfocused without any spark of recognition or even lucidity. Her face was pale and thin - Giles realized he rarely, if ever, seen her without a trace of makeup before - but that could not wholly account for the difference between the remembered fresh, healthy glow and the wan, listless look of her now.

"Oh, Buffy" he breathed in a harsh whisper that was equal parts relief and concern. He pulled her to him in an enveloping hug. "Buffy, I'm here. I've got you. It's going to be all right."

"G-g-giles?" the weak, tremulous query came from the spot where her face was pressed into the fabric of his jacket.

"It's me. I'm here." Giles loosened his embrace of her slightly, allowing her to lean back so that she could see his face. On impulse, he pressed his lips to her forehead firmly, as though to impress on her the reality of his presence. He saw that her eyes were now tracking his movement but she appeared to struggle with the ability to focus upon him. Suddenly, all her muscles snapped into rigidity and her eyes flew open wide, startled recognition alight in them.

"Giles, you're really here." She swallowed convulsively and her limbs twitched without discernable purpose. She blinked and stared into his eyes intently, seemingly searching for - something. "I thought maybe I only dreamed about calling you. I wanted to see you… talk to you… so badly." She wilted and faded away, eyes drifting shut; all her muscles falling slack at once.

Giles gripped her more firmly to his chest, momentarily stunned by the raw need in her voice. Although deep feelings between and within them abounded it was rare for either of them to allow such an open expression of them. He responded to her although he knew she probably wouldn't hear. Perhaps he needed to hear himself say it for his own reassurance. "It's all right now. Everything will be all right."

He straightened from his kneeling position, bringing her up into his arms and almost overbalancing when her weight, although she was clothed and soaked to the skin, was much less than he expected; than it should have been. Another alarm bell went off in his head and his burning need to see her safe and warm ratcheted up a notch.

He placed her swiftly but carefully in the front passenger seat of the Range Rover, swaddling her in a lap robe before belting her in securely. He took a moment to sweep the hair away from her face. "Everything will be all right now. I promise," he repeated softly; then raced around the vehicle and jumped into the driver's seat.

A fresh burst of pounding rain let go from the heavens as he pulled back onto the pavement in search of the turn off to the cabin.

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It was a blessing that the directions from Kathy had been so clear. Giles found the cabin with some trouble while contending with the foul weather. Inadequate detail in the directions might have caused him to miss the haven entirely; but now, with the headlights of the Range Rover painting the front of the small, log structure, Giles carried his burden and treasure under a solid roof.

He placed Buffy, still wrapped in the lap robe, onto a tarpaulin-covered couch which stretched parallel to a large stone fireplace. Five rapid round trips to the car allowed him to transfer the considerable contents Kathy had packed for him into the cabin. He returned once more to retrieve his bag, found and started the generator, dashed through the unrelenting downpour into the cabin and secured the door behind him.

He snapped on a floor lamp in the corner and set to starting a fire in the fireplace. He was relieved by the generous quantity of logs stacked in a metal frame against an outside wall. He could keep this small cabin comfortably warm for at least a few days, even if the electric heat was insufficient. With a small fire gradually crackling into larger life on the hearth, Giles replaced the fire screen and turned to his main concern.

Buffy lay silent and unmoving where he had left her; only her face was visible to him at the moment, wrapped as completely as she was, but the light from the lamp and the growing fire revealed more than he had yet seen of her condition.

A large bruise covered the side of her head, now visible because her hair had fallen back. It stretched from her temple to her jaw, from her too prominent cheekbone to her ear - which sported scabbed over puncture wounds whose pattern suggested a bite. Deep purple shadows gathered below her closed eyes. Giles focused on the slight rise and fall of her chest for a moment to reassure him she was still alive; she looked so pale and pained.

"Buffy," he called softly to her, sliding the back of his fingers gently across her brow, then resting his palm there against the cool, damp porcelain of her skin. "Buffy," he called again, a little louder. She did not stir. The overwhelming need to get her dry and warm easily overrode the niggling feeling of guilt he felt for having to strip her while she was unconscious.

"Needs must, old man," he reassured himself and lifted her, tarpaulin and all, from the couch to place her on the rug in front of the fire. He wanted the couch to remain dry so that he could put her there to rest after he had done what he could to make her comfortable.

As he removed each garment he saw signs of both long term neglect and a fairly recent violent incident.

Over shirt: Thin, almost ropy arms with bruises and an ugly gash on one upper arm. It was fresh, having begun to scab over only on the end where the wound was most shallow.

Undershirt: Overly prominent clavicle, breastbone and ribs. Two ribs moved unnaturally under his touch, with a slight scraping noise that spoke of fractures.

Bra: Deep puncture wounds, recent and barely beginning to heal, on one shoulder.

Pants: Legs that were thin, like her arms, and very different from the toned, muscular thighs and calves with which he was familiar. One knee was swollen and an angry shade of red and purple.

Panties: Jutting hip bones and deep black and purple bruising on her abdomen and hips.

As he went, Giles dried her cool, clammy skin as vigorously as he dared with several threadbare but clean, soft towels he had found in a cupboard while taking care not to overly stress her myriad injuries with his ministrations. Having achieved a very slight pink tinge to appear on Buffy's skin, Giles sat back on his haunches for a moment and simply gazed at her.

"Oh, Buffy; what have you done to yourself?" Giles shook himself out of his brief reverie. All this would come later; **must** come later.

Giles moved her to the couch and tended the wounds that seemed recent enough to benefit from some first aid and then sorted through the clothing Kathy had provided, the quantity of which suggested she must have severely depleted her casual wardrobe. He pulled out a pair of fleecy sweatpants, a cotton tank top, a V-neck pullover with a deep, soft pile and a pair of thick socks. He dressed her in everything he had selected except the pullover. After a few hurried motions to divest himself of his own wet clothing, Giles toweled himself dry, pulled on underwear, socks, a T-shirt and sweatpants he had retrieved from his bag and turned back to the couch.

He rested his palm on her forehead again; she was still cool, too cool, to the touch. Giles sat down, turned his back to the end of the couch and reclined, pulling her into his arms as he went. He pulled the blankets he had folded across the top of the couch over the two of them, wrapped his arms securely around his Slayer, heaved a sigh of relief and exhaustion, closed his eyes and settled in to wait for her to wake up.

End Chapter Two


	3. Chapter 3  Fragile Proximity

Disclaimer: Not mine, not making money.

**By a Thread** by Coast2Coast

**Chapter Three: Fragile Proximity**

Although Giles had meant to stay at least marginally alert, the sleep deprivation he had experienced since Buffy had disappeared would not allow him to remain awake now that his immediate concern for her had been alleviated. He found himself nodding off and then waking abruptly a few minutes to an hour later to find he still held his charge securely in his arms. Each time he woke her skin was less chilled until, finally, she was actually radiating her own body heat rather than merely absorbing his. Giles noted that the view out a window, which to this point had been uniformly and solidly black, was fading to midnight blue in a portion of the frame. Dawn would be coming in an hour or so.

As he shifted to ease the stiff muscles in his back, shoulders and arms he heard a sigh and a whispered 'Giles' and felt a soft exhale of warm breath against his neck.

"Buffy? Are you awake? Can you hear me?" Giles asked softly. He knew she needed her rest, but now that she had slept for several undisturbed hours he was more concerned with beginning to reverse her dehydrated and malnourished condition.

"Buffy?" he repeated, a little louder this time.

"Mmmm… ?" she hummed against his neck; snuggling into his chest.

"Buffy," he combed the fingers of one hand gently through her hair. "Wake up for me, please. Just for a bit, then you can sleep again."

"Giles…" even more indistinct as she burrowed her face more deeply into the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

Oh yes, he recognized that tone; although it was a weak copy of the one with which he was so familiar. This was the tone that questioned why he was asking something so completely unnecessary and unfair of her.

"Yes, well, as pleased as I am to discover that you still recognize me, even with your eyes closed and when not fully awake, I would appreciate a little more cooperation, if you don't mind," Giles ventured, trying to connect with a more cognizant part of her by resurrecting their more usual, bantering style.

"'Course it's you," she breathed after a moment. "Warm, safe; Giles." she whispered and exhaled a long, contented sigh.

Gratified as he was by her blatant, if semi-conscious, appreciation for him; he needed her to wake up now. Giles used an elbow to leverage his upper body while lifting and turning Buffy into a seated position next to him on the couch, eliciting a discontented moan from her. The blankets had clung to her back and he folded them across her chest to keep her warm. When he was sure she was balanced and would not slide to either side or, worse yet, off the couch he left her yawning and blinking to quickly step into the kitchen where he had left a kettle of water over low heat.

He returned in moments with a mug of Bovril, a large glass of water and a mug of tea on a tray which he set down on the table at his end of the couch. Immediately after seating himself, Buffy leaned toward him and rested her head against his shoulder.

"I'm tired, Giles. Just want to sleep," she complained softly.

"Come now, Buffy. Stay with me," Giles chided. "I want you to get something warm in your stomach. Then you can sleep in a bed. You'll be more comfortable." Giles straightened her up a bit and held the mug of Bovril in front of her. "Can you hold onto this all right?" Buffy sighed and poked her arms out from the nest of blankets, wrapping both hands around the mug Giles had offered her. "Sip that slowly, now. But drink as much as you can," he instructed her.

Giles watched her take a tentative sip of the hot broth. She seemed to have a little trouble swallowing on the first few tries, but then relaxed and sipped and swallowed more easily every minute or so after that. Giles lifted his mug of tea and kept a companionable silence with her as she worked her way steadily through the entire contents of the mug. When she handed the empty mug back to him, Giles replaced it with the glass of tepid water.

"See if you can drink some of this as well, Buffy. You're dehydrated and you really need the liquid."

Buffy grimaced but promptly began sipping the water as easily as she had finished the Bovril. When the glass was nearly empty, she extended it to him. "That's all I can manage, Giles," she whispered wearily.

As she had become more alert, Giles had watched her begin to withdraw from him. She had shifted her position infinitesimally but several times, and always away from him, since he had returned to the couch. She had glanced at him, surreptitiously, but looked away or down at her hands if he attempted to meet her gaze. He sighed inwardly in recognition of the fact that they had a long way to go in repairing the damage that had been done to their relationship but was encouraged that her words and actions during her less lucid, unguarded moments demonstrated that, deep down, she acknowledged that she trusted and needed him.

Giles placed the glass and his mug of tea back onto the tray. "You did fine. Ready for a proper rest?"

Buffy nodded and leaned her head against the back corner at the far end of the couch.

"No, no. Not here. You'll be more comfortable in the bed."

Buffy made a small, incoherent noise of complaint, but Giles would not relent. Making allowances for her obvious exhaustion, he lifted her from her blanket cocoon and carried her to the bed in the corner of the room nearest the fireplace.

He dropped the pullover he had withheld earlier over her head and helped her get her arms into the sleeves, then slid her down the mattress and pulled the bedding up to her chin.

"Sleep well, Buffy. Just call if you need anything," Giles told her.

Buffy's eyes popped open, although only halfway; she was that tired. She grasped his wrist and entreated softly "Don't go, Giles. Don't leave me alone."

Giles felt a wrench in the pit of his stomach. _**I'm**__ not the one who ran off without a word! I didn't abandon you to pointless speculation and anguish. _He ruthlessly smothered this train of thought before it gained momentum. Valid as it might be, now was not the time for righteous anger – he wasn't quite sure when, if ever, he might allow it to surface. "I'm not going anywhere; and if I did, it wouldn't be without you," he reassured her.

Her eyes drifted closed once more and her grip on his wrist loosened. Giles smoothly slid his hand from her grasp and moved quietly away from the bed. He glanced at the bags and boxes he had yet to unpack, peered out the window at a still pre-dawn sky and surrendered, for once, to his own needs. He added a couple of logs to the fire, sprawled comfortably full-length on the sofa and plummeted immediately into what he hoped would be the sweet, uncaring oblivion of dreamless sleep.

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When he woke, Giles was momentarily disoriented. The smell of a wood fire was incongruous in Southern California nearly year round and especially out of place in late summer. As he sat up and peered around he recollected his location and purpose here – and said purpose no longer occupied the bed in the corner of the room. He barely avoided slamming face first into the floor as he lunged off the sofa in preparation of tearing the cabin apart or haring off into the blue – whichever seemed more likely to uncover his Slayer. He scrambled to his feet, trying to catch his breath.

"Hi, Giles," came a soft voice from behind him. "Do you want some soup?"

Giles swung around, wild-eyed and panicked, to see Buffy seated at the square, oilcloth covered table in the corner of the room where a stove, a sink and a small refrigerator made up the bare bones of a kitchen. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly and swallowed carefully a couple of times before approaching her and seating himself in the other chair at the table. "Yes, thank you," he managed in what he hoped was a calm tone.

While he might have recovered his composure, Buffy certainly hadn't missed his initial alarm. "I guess it's a good thing I decided not to sit out on the porch until after you woke up," she commented as she ladled soup into the bowl she had laid out for him. "And if you're going to sleep on the sofa and then wake up like that we should probably move it. For a second there I thought you were going to go head first into the fireplace."

Once again, Giles felt the sting of justifiable anger rising in him. He gripped the spoon he had been about to use, clamped his eyes shut and began counting to himself – to what multi-digit number he was not quite sure. An inarticulate, guttural sound from across the table interrupted him. His eyes flew open to see Buffy, clearly agitated, reaching out with one hand but stopping just short of touching the hand with which he had a death grip on his spoon. Her fingers twitched as though she feared pain or shock might greet them if she made contact with him. Her eyes were filled with a combination of remorse and dread. What had she to fear from him? he wondered.

Buffy, apparently abandoning the urge to touch him, jumped up from her chair and began to pace. "I'm sorry, Giles! God, how many times will I say that? It isn't enough and it doesn't mean anything if I just keep saying and doing stupid things that need an apology! Of course you wake up freaked! You've been having nightmares, too, no doubt, and I've been off god-knows-where doing god-knows-what and maybe even dead and you wouldn't know, would you, 'cuz been there, done that, not gonna get another Slayer on account of me dying – I don't even have **that** much left to offer and I just keep lashing out at the one person… the only person who…" she stopped pacing and turned her dismayed expression to him in a wordless entreaty for his assistance, possibly in supplying his own estimation of what he had allowed and what he had left to give.

What she saw in his eyes was a cool appraisal that startled her. "If you've quite finished?" he said with a dry, almost patronizing, air. As he saw her stiffen, he applauded himself mentally and went on before she could start babbling again. "I am in absolute agreement with you in at least one regard; you should either stop offending me or stop apologizing for it – I prefer the former if it matters to you." Giles rose and stepped toward her, now looming over her upturned and astonished face from his significant height advantage. "And if that doesn't strain your considerable abilities," he continued. "You can stop apologizing for horrible things that happen in close proximity to and simultaneous with you performing your duties as the Slayer.

They locked stares for a long, silent perusal; then Buffy burst into tears and ran out the cabin door.

"Oh dear Lord!" Giles exclaimed, in exasperation and chagrin, as he bolted after her.

End Chapter Three


	4. Chapter 4  Cautious Rapprochement

Disclaimer: Not mine, not making money.

**By a Thread** by Coast2Coast

**Chapter Four: Cautious Rapprochement**

Giles charged out the door and came to an abrupt halt. Buffy hovered on the lowest stair of the porch dancing from foot to foot, which were clad only in socks, staring at the morass of mud that stretched from the cabin to the road without a dry patch in sight.

Giles lifted her off her feet before she could make up her mind to brave the wet terrain and deposited her on a wicker couch. He leaned against the porch railing, gasping in lungful after bracing lungful of cool, fresh pine and cedar scented air as his heart rate slowed and Buffy's sobs trailed off into quiet weeping. When he approached the couch to comfort her, she raised her tear-streaked face to him. "Please, Giles," she implored. "Just let me get it out of my system." As she pulled her feet up, wrapped her arms around her legs and tucked her head down, Giles went back into the cabin. He returned a moment later having added a shirt and jacket to the clothing he was wearing and carrying a blanket and two handkerchiefs. He paused by Buffy long enough to offer her the handkerchiefs, which she accepted, and to drape the blanket around her. Giles seated himself at the opposite end of the couch and, when Buffy offered no complaint regarding his presence, he produced a book from his jacket pocket and began to read.

For two hours Giles tried to lose himself in his book but found that the only thing on which he could concentrate was the smallest sound from Buffy. He waited for some sign that he could be of help or comfort but, failing that, wanted her to know she needn't feel alone.

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"What's the worst thing you've ever done?"

Although it was voiced softly and he had been expecting to hear something from her for some time, the question still startled Giles. He set his book aside and turned toward her. Buffy was now sitting cross-legged and had shifted her position to face him, her attention focused wholly on his face.

"You already know the worst thing I've ever done," he answered quietly, subdued by the seriousness in her expression and the subject matter she had broached.

She nodded slightly to herself, as though this was confirmation of something she had already guessed. "Eyghon," she said.

"Yes, Eyghon."

"You didn't want to tell us… you didn't want to tell **me** what was going on; even though there was danger. You said you didn't want me to know about that part of you," Buffy remembered.

"I was afraid you would lose respect for me. That you wouldn't…" he sighed. This was going to require honesty on both sides. _Quid pro quo, old man; don't let her down._ Giles met her patient, but watchful and expectant gaze. "I was ashamed of what I had done. I was afraid you wouldn't care for me anymore."

Buffy nodded, understanding his concern. They had been new in their relationship then, though their bond had been tested by fire and battle. "It actually brought us closer, though, didn't it? My knowing something that personal about you, your history. Something you wouldn't want just anyone to know. And you knowing that I knew it."

Giles had to smile at her phrasing. "Yes, it did," he agreed.

Buffy lapsed into silence again; Giles waited patiently for her to go on. _Come on, Buffy. You can do it_, he silently encouraged her; fully aware that he was expecting her to be more courageous and selfless than he had been in her position.

"Do you want to know the worst thing I've ever done?"

_No._ "Yes, tell me."

"I condemned someone I love to eternal torment in Hell."

In sympathy for the distress that showed on her face, Giles reached out to her but Buffy intercepted his attempt at a hug and instead clasped his hand in hers and locked gazes with him.

"Angelus pulled the sword out of Acathla. There was brief glow of light, then nothing. I thought… I hoped he somehow missed a step, that, okay, he had a sword, which was bad, but he didn't do everything he had to do to open the vortex. Everyone but the two of us was gone by then; Xander got you out and Spike escaped with Drusilla and I had killed the other vamps. We fought and finally I disarmed him. I was going to kill him, Giles; honest. I was just about to behead him and … he… a light flashed in his eyes and he staggered and fell to his knees. He looked up at me and said my name. It was Angel."

Giles gasped– a harsh intake of breath that communicated his dismay at this revelation to her without the need for words. Buffy paused for a moment and a deep breath and when she resumed speaking it was barely above a whisper. "He… I… we…" she clamped her eyes shut and pressed her lips into a firm line, clearly struggling for control. Her hands gripped his more forcefully and Giles returned the pressure in acknowledgement of her distress.

She took another breath and when she spoke it was clear she had decided to censor what she had been about to say before. "The vortex was opening." Buffy opened her eyes and met Giles gaze. "I picked up my sword and ran him through."

She inhaled sharply and tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh God, Giles; I'll never forget the look of fear and betrayal on his face! He held out his hand to me, but I didn't move. He fell back into the vortex and it closed."

Now severely agitated, Buffy let go of Giles' hand and leapt to her feet. She stepped over to the porch railing and gazed off into the distance. Giles rose and moved to stand behind her and she responded, as though to the tidal pull of his solid presence, by leaning fractionally back toward him. Giles spoke, hoping to alleviate the distress he could sense radiating from her in waves. "I know this is little consolation, but you did the right thing. The only thing you could have done. If you hadn't, Angel would still be in hell; along with all the rest of us. And our world would be filled with only demons."

"I know. But every time I close my eyes I see him holding out his hand to me and hear him calling my name. And when I dream I see him in hell," Buffy confessed. She turned to see Giles regarding her with sorrow and deep compassion.

"I can't go back, Giles," she told him gravely. "I sent Angel to hell, I wasn't there to save Kendra's life or to keep you guys from getting hurt, the police are after me, I've been expelled from school and my mother wishes I'd never been born."

Giles reached out and squeezed her shoulder, encouraging her to continue to meet his eyes. "Most of those things are not true, no longer the case, not your fault or all of the above," he gently chided her.

Buffy leaned her head against his chest. "I ran away so that I wouldn't hurt any of you anymore," she said. "If I was gone the new Slayer who came after Kendra might go to Sunnydale and you and Willow and Xander could have regular lives; and maybe I could, too."

Giles stroked her hair in a sympathetic gesture. "I'm afraid that's not our destiny, Buffy," he commiserated.

"It was bad without you, Giles," Buffy admitted, in a tone reminiscent of a child declaring his terror of what lurks in the shadows once the bedroom light goes out. "I didn't think… I didn't know I would want…" she trailed off, unable, as yet, to articulate the aching need that had punished her during her flight.

"I know," he replied, thinking of the depravation and injuries she had suffered and his downward spiral of guilt and despair during her sojourn away from him.

Buffy pulled away from him and looked up into his face in entreaty. "Do we have to go back, Giles? Isn't there any way…"

Giles knew it would ultimately be nothing short of cruelty to pretend for even a short while that they could shirk their duty. As he cast about for the words to dash her wistful hopes in the gentlest possible way; his innate honesty and the openness of his expression betrayed his thoughts to her.

"No, huh?" she said; accepting his unvoiced pronouncement of their fate. She sighed in resignation and rested her head against his chest once more.

Giles wrapped his arms around her and bore silent witness to her grief while the twilight gathered under the trees and a mist crept up from a nearby but unseen body of water.

Soon, he would take her inside and feed her and insist that she sleep. And tomorrow they would head south to face their shared destiny.

~ The End ~


End file.
